Last Wednesday, someone tried to kill me, twice. To some of you, this isn’t a surprise, but it had nothing to do with politics, red headed women, or the Oxford Comma. Instead, this all came about from me doing something that seems to freak people out because it’s so rarely done in this part of the world, and no, I’m not talking about using complete sentences or enunciating three syllable words. I drove according to the laws and regulations of driving a vehicle. This will get you killed in South Georgia.
When I go to work I use a different route than when I leave work. First, there are us people who get up early, make coffee and breakfast, shower, shave, and then travel at a sane pace knowing we’re going to be early. We also know the Others, who get up seventeen seconds before they’re going to be late, put on yesterday’s jeans and a shirt that was hanging on something in their bedroom, grab two Twinkies and a warm coke off the table as they rush out and hope no one sees them putting their shoes on with no socks as they’re driving.
I actually left a little early. I wanted to listen to some Bach on the road and I also needed to get some gas. There’s a window of time, just before seven-thirty, where the only people on the road are those who arrive early, like me or those whose work takes them on the road. We are a hard working bunch, as is anyone who takes the trouble to get up and make ready for the day, but we will soon beset by those who hit the roads like jackrabbits cranked on meth who have 110-volt wires glue to parts of their bodies that I cannot mention in mixed company. Suffice it to say these people are a hazard to anything and everything on the roads.
One of them tried to kill me. Twice.
The gas station I like to go to is perfect for getting into and getting out of. It’s on a corner where there’s a traffic light. I have the timing of this light down to a science. If the light is red on the side street I know it will be green on the main road for a full minute. If it’s green on the side road I know I have about twenty seconds to hit it before it turns. I have to be quick, but I do not have to be fast. I got this.
I make it out of the parking lot and onto the main road perfectly. Smooth as silk and now I’m heading back towards the road I have to turn left on to go to work. It’s red as I’m leaving the gas station and all I have to do is maintain my speed and I can make that light when it turns green.
I’m in the inside lane, the lane closest to the centerline, where I should be to turn left at the light. A white minivan pulls out of a driveway, crosses over the outside lane, and pulls out in front of me. Near Death Experience Number One. I have to swerve over to the outside lane to miss her. She sees me in her rearview mirror, panics, and pulls into the outside lane, nearly hitting me again. NDEN2.
What the actual f&^%?
I have no idea what to do or where to go and this woman stops, dead still, blocking me from doing much more that changing the music from Bach to Frank Zappa’s “Apostrophe” title track from that album. We will now ride with some Old School Guitar solo as ammo for the cursing that will continue until my butt unclenches from the seat of the truck.
The woman pulls away and I follow her. The light is red when we arrive at the next intersection. She can hear the guitar stalking her from behind, She knows she has failed in her assassination attempt and the Ghost of Frank Zappa will haunt her as my revenge.
It’s not Rocket Surgery, people.